


Idyll in the Rue Saint Jaques.

by Alexander_Slamilton



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista!R, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fill, Trans Enjolras, this is literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 15:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12485376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: Prompt fill: "It’s 3am and you’re singing on your balcony but your balcony is right next door to my balcony and it’s hot so I have my window open; also I have to be up at 6am for work but I can’t stop listening to you. Here’s a song request."





	Idyll in the Rue Saint Jaques.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andiepandie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andiepandie/gifts).



 

Enjolras was pretty sure that someone was singing on the balcony above his. He sighed and rolled over, it was boiling hot outside and his air conditioning had broken three days ago. His repeated calls to the landlord had done nothing. It was four am, Paris was sweltering under the weight of a muggy August; Enjolras sighed again puffing out his cheeks, he had a meeting in five hours, it seemed like he was going to be running on caffein for that. The faint sounds of a melody hung in the air like the tinkling of wind chimes. Enjolras gave up on sleeping when the voice got louder, it sounded like the person had decided to sing outside; their voice more clearly floated down to Enjolras; he stood and walked to his window. 

 

Paris didn't seem to sleep at night. There were still cars rolling down the street outside his apartment on the Rue Saint Jaques. The tall buildings surrounding him making the sound of traffic and voices amplifie, though he was used to that after living in Paris for five years. Enjolras was pretty sure he has sweat rolling down his back; as he sat down on one of the rickety chairs he had put on the balcony as an after thought. He curled his legs under him, tucking his feet on to the cool metal railings as he listened to the person above him. 

 

The person, Enjolras didn’t want to assume, had a deepish voice; a tenor his vague knowledge from two years of choir supplied. They were signing an old french tune, a lullaby, ‘Dodo l’enfant do’; Enjolras could feel his body relaxing at the sound. Faint, hazy memories of his mother drifted to the front of his mind, swaddled in the white mist of time. The warm night caressed him, rocking him further down to sleep; though his more rational brain told him that he shouldn't be sleeping on a hard terrace chair. He heard the person shuffle on the balcony, what sounded like slippered feet moving inside then coming back out. That was when he heard the first strings being strum, the voice on its own had been heavenly; now with the guitar is was even better. 

 

“Play ‘La Vie en Rose’,” He heard himself say before he could stop himself.

 

“…” There was a dreadful pause in the music before a voice came down from above, “that’s a little cliché.”

 

“Please,” Enjolras thought _‘go hard or go home’,_ “I can’t sleep.” 

 

“Fine,” and the person started singing. 

 

***

 

Time passed and the summer turned in to a stone cold, unforgiving winter; the type that turns windows frosted and covers pavements in a permanent slush. Enjolras had spent the better parts of the hot summer nights listening to the stranger sing; he’d never seen him in the hallways and they’d never seemed to seek each other out in their shared building. Instead they preferred a more anonymous type of relationship. A mutual respect for their respective space. 

 

The weather that day had been nigh on unbearable; cold grey skies that morning had turned in to a never ending storm of sleet, that never seemed to turn to snow. Instead it soaked and froze Paris as it rained from on high. Enjolras had been caught in the brunt of it, his favourite red coat had been soaked through; and so now he was very cold and very wet. His hair had started to drip though it was almost solid due to the winds, and his nose had begun to run. He decided to call it a day on handing out leaflets and resolved himself to finding the nearest cafe. 

 

The one he stumbled upon was small, a little grubby and worse for wear, the window almost obscured by a grime that seemed deliberate. It had been, at one point, painted green; mottled and dark the colour was now peeling off the wood. A fading sign which had obviously once been gold hung above the door, “Le Café Alouette”; the sign rocked in the wind, creaking on its hinges a little. Enjolras shrugged and stepped inside. 

 

A burst of warmth immediately settled over him, hot and humid and full; the cafe was bursting at the seems with Parisians vying for the chance to escape the cold. Though he could see there was no line to order through the murk; it seemed everyone else had given up before he had. The tables were small and pushed close together; though it was not a horrid set up. Strings of lights were strung across the ceiling, creating a soft yellow glow that was light enough to see everything; old fashioned light bulbs hung haphazardly between the fairy lights, there was an assortment of lampshades in every colour and shape. Flowers adorned most surfaces, both pressed in frames on the walls and in vases on the tables. Artwork was thrown between them as odd intervals, creating a break in tone and colour; the paintings were beautiful, their subjects endlessly fascinating. Enjolras paused in his pursuit of a table to look at a lovely painting of a gorgeous young person with long flowing red hair; they were covered in birds and flowers of all dimensions. They had their face turned away from the painter, their bare shoulders hunched and brown freckled skin cast in a golden glow from the sun; Enjolras couldn't help but feel there was something familiar about them, but none of his friends reminded him about fay come to their world. In the corner of the room was a tiny stage, a stool and a guitar sat by it; there was no mic, the room was too small for whoever was performing to need one. He pressed on through the cafe to the front of the bar, where a menu was hung behind the tills. 

 

“Hi, how can I help you?” A short, stocky person looked up at him, their name badge read, R. Their voice was warm, friendly, but Enjolras suspected that it was just their customer service voice; he’d worked enough jobs to know what one sounded like. R had warm brown hair and tan skin, that looked like it had recently caught the sun, despite it being December; his eyes were dark green, like the leaves off a tree in full summer strength. 

 

“Uh, can I just get…” R’s eyebrows shot up at the sound of his voice, Enjolras tried not let it unnerve him. “A filter coffee with milk and a sugar.” 

 

“Of course, anything else? We’ve just got our first batch of ginger bread, if you’d like to try it?” R smiled, though his face quickly sculpted itself back to polite. 

 

“Erm, who’s are those paintings on the walls? They’re beautiful, I’d love to get one for my apartment,” Enjolras wanted to keep speaking to R, something about them was drawing him in. 

 

“Mine, the name’s Grantaire, here’s my card,” Grantaire smiled again, a little more genuine this time. His voice turned warm like his hair and eyes; his face becoming more animated. He handed Enjolras his card. 

 

_Ranae Grantaire_

_Artist. Barista. Singer. Songwriter._

_Apartment 3a._

_221 Rue Saint Jaques._

_Paris._

 

Enjolras stopped, turning the card over in his hands, reading and re-reading the address on it. That was the address of the apartment directly above his. And Grantaire was a singer. He smiled, a big grin breaking out across his face. He brushed a lock of sodden hair out of his face; looking back up at Grantaire. Who was grinning just the same. 

 

“Play ‘La Vie en Rose’,” Enjolras said, gesturing to the stage. 

 

“A little cliché, don’t you think,” Grantaire laughed, nodded though, coming out from behind the bar, taking Enjolras’s hand (after a moment’s hesitation) he lead Enjolras to the table in front of the stage. Enjolras sat down, letting the sounds of Grantaire’s voice relax him. Grantaire did not take his eyes off Enjolras for the whole song; though Enjolras was not inclined to mind very much.

**Author's Note:**

> For Andie!! Happy Birthday ily <3


End file.
